


from across the club

by ratthirst



Category: Within the Wires (Podcast)
Genre: Bondage, D/s, Other, daydream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 03:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16966458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratthirst/pseuds/ratthirst
Summary: Seeking out another tape of Mr. Witten's dictation, another secretary imagines a night out with our beloved bureaucrat.





	from across the club

The next time I heard his voice, I sought it out intentionally. I had made it a few weeks without sneaking a tape from Amy’s desk. And I don’t remember what drove me to it. Maybe Mr. Johnson had said something particularly horrible that day, or maybe Mr. Witten’s suit had clung to him just right. No matter, I ended up where I knew I would, rummaging through Amy’s drawer after hours. 

The first tape I grabbed, I slipped into my player, clicked the button and held my breath in anticipation. Instead of being greeted by Mr. Witten’s commanding yet kind voice, jazz started blaring in my ears. The spattering of brass, the wild drums. This piece sounded familiar, but how had it ended up in Amy’s desk? How had it ended up recorded in the first place? When would people learn that jazz is about the experience, about seeing musicians tangle their sounds together for some beautiful cacophony, trusting each other to move freely within the structure, to push forth that which was just beneath the surface. 

Whoever had captured this recording certainly didn’t understand that 90% of its beauty was in the live performance. I made a mental note to invite Amy the next time I planned to go to a jazz club, to show her the real deal. It would be fun to spend a night out with her, to let loose outside of the office. Though when Mr. Witten’s voice ruptured over the horns, I realized I shouldn’t have been so quick to assume the jazz was for Amy. 

Mr. Witten and his curious taste in arts. Oh how I wished to understand him, to know how this music made him feel. Did his pulse quicken? Did he tap along to the beat, drumming his fingers on his desk? (Judging by the recording, it didn’t sound like it.) Had he ever been to a live show, or was he one of those bureaucrats who only engaged with the arts over fancy dinner parties and gallery openings and crisply pressed records? 

Mr. Witten seemed too proper for a smoke-filled jazz club. I wondered about the sight of him in one. I would love to see his eyes come alive with the bass pounding in his ears. I imagined how it would overcome him; I loved imagining him loose. I thought of all that might be possible if he were given an opportunity to slip out of control, even just for one night. I shivered at the idea of sitting next to him. I thought of my hand on his knee, feeling how the music captured him, letting the tension grow. After a few drinks, I imagined tugging on his tie and growling for him to follow me. I knew exactly which dark corner of the club I would drag him into, exactly how long the eventual walk from the club to my tiny apartment would take. 

In my imagination, he would press me up against the back wall of the club. His inhibitions lowered, he’d take advantage of me. Would he be eager enough to slip his hand between my thighs in public? I imagined dripping into his palm, my moans blending with the music. In the club, he could have me however he wanted me. But once I dragged him home, once that tie was undone from his neck, it was my turn. 

I loved undoing lovers in my bed, figuring out exactly how to unravel them. Mr. Witten seemed like the type of man who would appreciate a proper knot, a bit of structure and restraint. What would it be like to get him loose in the club only to restrain him in my bed? Could he handle having someone else in charge? I thought of how I would tease him, seeing how hot I could get him. What would he do when I made him wait? I would loosen his belt from his pants, run it along his bare skin, and make sure he knew there were consequences should his impatience get out of control. When he was raw, I would make him say it outloud. 

I thought of how sweet his voice might sound, no longer barking quick orders, instead worn down and having to admit his desire, having to admit he desperately wanted something from someone else. I love the way desperation changes a person’s voice. I love working someone up to the point of not knowing if they will get what they beg for and hearing them beg nonetheless. I would want him to slow down and realize what he was asking. This was not a quick dictation, after all. Here, proper form and platitudes were meant to look and feel different.

I got lost in thoughts of negotiating power and pleasure with Mr. Witten, only to be jolted from them when I heard a vacuum cleaner down the hall. Full of desire, I quickly erased the tape, and left it for Mr. Johnson. That night I ended up in my favorite club and immediately scanned the room for a handsome man. My eyes landed on one about Mr. Witten’s height, and I made my way over to him. I think he could sense how worked up I was because before long we were in that back corner. It took all I could to keep from crooning “Michael” while this stranger coaxed me into an approximation of the ecstasy I sought.


End file.
